Despair
by OneThousandCuts
Summary: Cloud struggles with flashbacks post-ACC-and maybe worse. (Originally posted in 2011. Restored.)


Disclaimer: I don't own FFVII. SE does. Just a non-profit fan-work here.

" **Despair"**

People died and ambitions failed. Days passed, and nothing done was ever reversible. Their marks lingered on in even the smallest minutiae. Where there are always reminders, memories cannot die. Dreams cannot fade. Their will cannot fade, nor by any means be diffused. Anything which has attained this state is beyond life and death.

Nightmares, as such, may never recede into simple memory.

Cloud curled into himself, cringing at the dark epiphany. Soft moonlight filtered in through holes in the old church's roof, glistening off the water. He always came here when the fear became too oppressive. The pool of healing water that had cleansed the world of Geostigma remained the one saving grace from his scarred mind. No one could make its appearance unreal. As long as he could come here to collect himself, and gaze into the clear depths, he could always go home to Tifa, Denzel, and Marlene, feeling secure that all was well.

But…why hadn't the Planet done this in the first place? Cloud's easing breath caught; his mind stuck on another obstacle. How was Sephiroth even able to come back, if Holy had truly enacted Gaia's will against Jenova, and all else that it deemed unworthy?

Because…maybe, it didn't. The malignant alien force remained, along with her would-be progeny. Why? For two whole years, there had been nothing—at least, nothing large-to indicate that new horrors would arise. And then, there was Geostigma. Such a clever device it had been, appearing as Mako radiation poisoning, driving men, women, and children into the streets. They had wandered, confused, oozing, and dying. To see them, if one had never entertained the existence of zombies, it erased any doubt.

Lost in watery space, Cloud tightened his fists, imagining a dark, oily shadow lurking beneath the crystalline surface. He knew he was hallucinating then. Slick and creeping, it consumed the water, purging it of its holy essence. Bubbling sickly, it seeped down into the ground from whence it had come. He shut his eyes tightly, fighting hyperventilation, negotiating with himself.

How sad and disappointing this was! Yes, the physical battle had indeed been his, if only by a hair's breadth, but the psychological war Sephiroth had inflicted upon him raged ever on. Daring to peek through one eyelid, Cloud exhaled hard at the sight of pure, clean, untouched liquid. His pulse slowed ever so gradually, but the violent slamming of his own heart agitated the numerous damaged nerves he'd earned in that last, fateful fight.

And for that, he was overcome with the most vivid flashback. Oh no, he'd never, ever forget that pain. Skewered again, and again, and again; even if he detached his emotions from it, each stab resonated as it pleased. No matter his efforts to stay attached to the present reality; Cloud could still feel the cold bite of his nemesis' blade. He could still feel the dread of a certain loss, and could still smell his own blood as it poured from each freshly created orifice. Gaia, if Zack hadn't chosen that _exact_ moment to intercede….

Then, gently, reality returned. It was not blood he smelled or felt trickling down his face. It was the warmth of freshly wept, hot tears. Rising to his knees, Cloud knelt over the water's edge, and splashed his face. Damn, he could drown himself in this pool, and then maybe, somehow, his broken mind would accept the possibility that the present was safe. Yet, he still realized, his worries were not without a measure of perfect logic.

Where was the guarantee? Holy wasn't a guarantee before, so how could this simple, blessed cure be any better? Cloud's heart sank, and his eyes burned anew. There was no guarantee; absolutely nothing he could cling to for hope's sake. Peace was never a promise. Perseverance, maybe, but did he even have any strength left over for something like that? And what would it mean? Living day to day, simply pretending that danger wasn't quite possibly right around the next corner? Existing in naïve denial?

Collapsing onto his back, Cloud just wished for emptiness. Anything was better than to be enslaved to this constant horror. Not that it was how he really wanted to be, but he needed rest from it all so badly. For once, he wanted to excuse himself from thought and emotion; to turn his back on the inner war, if only briefly. He deserved respite just as much as anyone else, right?

The moon stared back at his mindless face, lulling him deeper into the self-induced hypnosis. Each hyper-vigilant mental barrier he'd erected fell, one by one. For the first time in years, he carelessly listened to the sound of crickets, softly chirping in the brush that was starting to grow in over the Midgar ruins. Such an unassuming, natural sound was dearly preferable to the constant tabs he felt necessary to keep on his psyche. Perhaps he was now running the risk that something, or worse, someone with a will strong enough to puppeteer him might invade, but how likely was that? Especially considering that the last battle had been won but mere weeks ago.

Maybe he'd sleep here, just tonight. He dared not let his guard down so completely elsewhere. There was just too much at stake. Tifa might be a little worried, but it wasn't as though she didn't know he'd come here. She was well aware of his struggles, even though it tended to infuriate her that he felt the need to protect their rag-tag family from himself.

Cloud didn't know how long he lay there, blissfully listening to the wonderful nothing. Not exactly what he'd call a black out, but the time was distorted, as he noticed that the church was completely dark, save for the dim luminescence of a few glittering stars. In SOLDIER, it was once known as the hour of "optimum darkness"; best for secret missions and the like—usually sabotages and assassinations. Back when ShinRa had greater power, this would be when the first and second class ranks would do their worst. It was also the time of night Sephiroth had chosen to torch Nibelheim.

Why did he have to think about that?! Bolting to his feet, suddenly sweat-drenched, Cloud took his sword in hand, his eyes darting to every corner of the wrecked sanctuary. For all he could immediately sense, he was alone. Even the insects had grown silent for the most part, as the hours of their mating had long passed. Not to mention that military foes were hardly something to contend with any longer.

Nevertheless, Cloud could _feel_ it, instinctively. He was being hunted, or at least haunted, for a lack of better terms. And why shouldn't he be? To his knowledge, he was probably the strongest host to Jenova cells left alive. Everyone was made aware of this, of course, but periodic blood testing had proven them to be "dormant if not dead". They were in remission, and that was supposed to be good enough, but the age-old problem with that state of health was that it didn't necessarily imply full healing. The microscopic invaders could, at any time, spring to life once more, inviting disaster for the world at large.

Cloud sat once again, wide-eyed in fear and frustrated for his inability to sleep. But, if he slept, he might dream, and wake to a nightmare. Conversely, if he chose vigilance, he would still eventually tire, and then the nightmare might come. There seemed no way to escape or prepare for this foregone conclusion. Either he was delving into madness, or his rational mind was simply doing its best to deliver the bad news gently with the ebb and flow of fact and intuition.

Desperate, Cloud removed his boots and waded into the pool, hoping that the sacred spring would cool and soothe his mind as it did his sticky skin. Ducking down so that he was completely submerged, he held his breath. If only it wasn't necessary to rise from here in a few minutes, for this felt as though it would be the perfect hiding place from anything malicious.

" _Do you truly believe that, Cloud….?"_

Nearly drowning with the start, he splashed back out of the water, coughing, and glaring back as though it had just insulted him. As for the voice he'd just heard—what if he simply chose to ignore it for now? His mental state truly was compromised from the stress, so it wasn't a long shot to say he'd conjured it up himself. To that end, a small, childish part of him begged to go home, to the safety of another experienced fighter and dearest friend, who would loyally protect him from…from what?

Exclaiming, "I heard a voice! Everybody run!" wasn't going to go over so well. They'd simply take him for the post-traumatic stress case he really was, at least until something tangible and obvious happened. But, by that time, it would be way too late.

This was far beyond psychological warfare, then. It was a "divide and conquer" tactic. Cloud knew he was most able to detect the foreboding signs before anyone, but if their very nature made him appear paranoid, he could help no one. In the past, there was a damn good reason why he'd never told anyone about hearing Sephiroth's voice after all…

At this point, Cloud was on the verge of tears again, because he himself could no longer tell the difference. The flashbacks and the actual moments of pain that had inspired them were of equal clarity. Sephiroth had succeeded at breaking down the divide between memory and present reality for him. He'd been rendered unreliable as an early warning system. There might not even be a fight next time, for all he could imagine. Gaia's inhabitants might one day awaken to Meteor bearing down once again, without any way to defend against it.

For now, if he wasn't being paranoid, the best way he knew to keep himself off the puppet master's strings was simply not to act. Unless, of course, that was exactly what Sephiroth wanted; to immobilize him. There were no right answers; only a myriad of wrong ones that could inevitably play into his foe's hands.

" _Why worry? You don't know your will, because you don't have one…"_

Kneeling, Cloud clutched at his temples, wincing from the hot, blinding flashes that assailed his senses. All but begging for this to be the onset of insanity, he knew the gift of despair had been delivered in full.


End file.
